MILLY.
A fairy thing was Milly when
She blest my wondering sight;
I ne'er shall meet her match again—
A maid so gaily bright.
Her ringlets flowed about her neck—
A neck that mocked the snow!
A sunny robe her bosom decked,
That proudly heaved below.
Sometimes she roamed the leas at morn,
And sang like a sweet bird—
Until a melody was born
On each outgushing word.
Sometimes amid her cottage home,
She touched the breathing lyre,
And then her quivering lips were dumb,
Her soaring soul on fire.
She was a very fairy maid;
And then we sinned to crave
That she with us might be delayed,
And never reach the grave.
One twilight when a star came forth,
She clapped her hands and smil'd,
And said that star within the North
Would take an earthly child.
Did some near, viewless angel speak
That word unto the maid,
That thus with sweet, unblanched cheek,
That awful word she said?
But thus it was; when autumn told
The yellow leaves to fall,
The maid no more could we behold,
No more she knew our call.
And now I watch that cold, high star,
Amid the leaden North,
And think she looks on me afar,
Forlorn upon this earth.